


soothe the wrath

by quadrille



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Post - A Feast for Crows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 08:31:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5157065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quadrille/pseuds/quadrille
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the Quiet Isle to the Vale: how a Hound becomes a gravedigger, picks himself back up, and moves on. He has old scores to settle. (Post-AFFC interlude.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	soothe the wrath

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in 2011, cross-posting it now.

For the longest time, he dreamt.  
  
He could not tell how long it had been; time passed in a dreary haze of poultices and milk of the poppy and cool compresses on his skull, fire in his limbs, fire in his wounds, a burning aching sickness that gnawed at his right leg and seemed to tear him apart from the inside. He was feverish, he knew—he was accustomed enough to battle injuries that, in one of his more lucid moments, he understood that the fire was the fire of fever. (Not the brazier, nor Dondarrion’s burning sword—but the fever.) But he dreamt, and Sandor Clegane soon forgot how to tell the difference between all the above.  
  
He saw wolves prowling across the horizon, and a pride of lions gnawing at his bones until he was a dusty skeleton laid to rest below the shadow of Casterly Rock. Dark shapes flitted through the woods. He saw his brother striding tall as mountains, a looming shape shattering the sky. He saw clouds of birds bursting from the canopy and fluttering into the air, shadows against the clouds. He saw wooden knights like life-size toys, toppling and scattering. He saw his mother’s face, hazy and long-forgotten. It was vague still. He saw his sister’s face and felt a surge of anger (wasn’t there something he ought to do? something he was forgetting—). He saw his sword: blood-stained, rusting, rotting. He felt the fire chewing and licking at his arms and legs, consuming him. And he saw  _her_  face constantly, a breath of cool air between the nightmares, a constant punctuation or comma or full-stop between the rest, like a steady-ticking beat.  
  
In one particularly delirious moment, he opened his eyes and he thought he saw an old man.  
  
_Death,_  Sandor thought.  _Not yet._

\---

  
Yet when the fever finally broke, he realised that the man was real: square-jawed, stern, and dressed in simple robes. When Sandor tried to speak, it came in a hoarse croak, his throat aching. The holy brothers fluttered back to his side.  
  
The man—the Elder Brother, as he introduced himself—hushed him back into silence.  
  
“You must rest.”

\---

  
They had wanted him to rest, to be still, to find peace and quiet somewhere in whatever passed for a soul in Sandor Clegane’s chest. To atone for his past sins. His entire body aching, and remembering a song echoing in his ears— _soothe the wrath and tame the fury—_ he was almost tempted by it.   
  
But he had to find his brother.  
  
And so he had taken his leave of them, with the smallest flicker of thanks and a strained smile. They were good enough men, he was forced to concede. It had been months to recover, to regain full use of his burned arm and bound leg. Longer than he could count. The realm had tipped itself askew again during his absence, it seemed; Joffrey was dead, and upon hearing the news, the man felt the slight, sickly twinge of a failed duty. The boy had looked up to him in a fashion. Forsaking his post or not, it had been the Hound’s job to keep him  _safe_. Years in the Lannisters’ service were years nonetheless, and it was hard to teach a dog new tricks.  
  
Then he reminded himself that the boy had been despicable; had been scum; had been the absolute worst of what the court could have bred.  
  
“Where will you go?” the Elder Brother had asked him on his departure, using one of their sparsely-allotted times to speak.  
  
The Hound had shrugged, still brushing down Stranger’s flanks. The stallion was one creature who had calmed, at the least; as ferocious and terrible as he was with the holy brothers, the animal had immediately settled the moment its owner returned.  
  
“Not Harrenhal or Saltpans, that’s for damned certain. I’ll stay clear. Find somewhere else to go. Even without an owner, a dog’ll find its way.”  
  
Having heard of the atrocities done in his name and wearing his helm (which drove another fresh spear of anger through him; the armoury had forged it special for him, gods be damned), the Hound was loath to revisit Saltpans. He wondered what had become of the wolf girl.  
  
But he had other concerns, and places to be.

\---

  
Clegane came riding hard into the Vale, following the general path of signposts left standing. From the wide circle around Saltpans, he stayed clear of destruction, burned fields, and gutted towns—eventually, this trajectory led him into the mountain passes. The Vale was one of the few places untouched by war, and last he knew, Lady Lysa had kept herself free from this entire conflict. It would be a good, safe place to gather news and suss out what had been happening in the realm. As fantastic as the Quiet Isle’s medical attention was, their news-gathering left much to be desired.  
  
When Stranger cantered into town, his rider arched an eyebrow in surprise, shifting in his saddle to stare down the streets. Banners and streamers gusted from every tilted rooftop; there was music and noise, and drinking in every public house.  
  
“What’s the occasion?” he shouted, leaning over to a man perched on a nearby barrel.  
  
“Betrothal of Harrold Hardyng to Alayne Stone!” the easterman hiccoughed, with a beaming smile.  
  
“Never heard of them.” With another shrug and a kick of his boot to Stranger’s side, the Hound continued further into the town, towards the general sound of feasting. He missed ale. He hadn’t had a drink in months.


End file.
